LIBRARY OF,CONGRESS. 

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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 




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■BY- 



/ 
T. J. SHAW-SLOANE. 




BOSTON 

DAMRELL & UPHAM 

^!)c (Dlb Corufr I'oohstorc 
1891 ' 






Copyrighted 
By T. J. SHAW— SLOANE. 

(All Rights Eeserved.) 



PRFSS OF 

JAN/'ES G. ALLBE, 

134 MAIN ST. 



TO 



Ret), a. 3. O^orbon, W. S., 



Pastor Clarendon Street Baptist Church, 
Boston, Mass. 



In veneration for — In love towards him — For the noble, sweet, 
cheering, pure language falling from his lips which helps those who 
hear to a better life — This book is respectfully inscribed by 

THE AUTHOR. 

Charlestown, Mass. 
February, 1891. 



:eI^EI^_^c:K]. 



So I bring my " pigs " to market — rather a sample of them. 
They are not very dainty; reliable pork never is — but I have fed 
them as well as my knowledge would allow. If they are too fat, 
freeze them; then chop off the extra "adipose matter;" if too lean, 
please add some " brown gravy of forbearance," remembering that 
their " original " owner has been more or less indisposed, suffering 
physical pain, etc., during the whole period of their "birth," 
" youth," and " education," and that with experience and practice his 
next " batch " will be more to your taste, mon ami. 

I take this opportunity to thank friends and such of the public 
who have bought, paid for, read, and appreciated " Yuletide 
Telesms" — my booklet of last Xmas. 

As Miss Newbury Street would say to some one else's brother, 
after an osculatory exercise, " John, dear John, I'll palliate-you on 
this occasion ; but, please, I, of a certainty, must remove my glasses 
hereafter, dear boy." So, reader mine, am I to hope for palliation ? 

I was born nurtured of a woman, 
I have lived through disease and fever, 
I have sinned ; but I'm only human. 
I'm balanced, with man as a lever 
And Satan as the pin. 



Charlestown, Mass., March, 1891. 



coi^sTTEivr'rs. 



J* 



15aby Boy. 

Tibi Seris — Tibi Metis. 

Sunbeam. 

4. Sonola's Prayer. 

5. In Memoriam — J. 1!, O'R. 

6. The Girl at No. 88. 

7. Not Available. 

8. Something. 

9. Dies Ira;. 

10. A Teacher's Talk to his Scholars. 

11. Is Life a Failure .'' 

12. Sunbeam and the liell. 

13. Incidental Slumming. 

14. Ma Chere. 

15. Sic itur ad Astra. 

16. Home. 

17. A Sigh. 

iS. A Sabbath School Scholar Gives Thanks. 

19. Bill. 

20. His Whiskers Red. 

21. Disappointment. 

22. A Child's Thanks, Nov. 27, 1890. 

23. A Glimpse of Life in Canada. 
24 Thanksgiving. 

25. May 28, 1890. 

26. His Quaternion Quotidian Queries. 

27. Ted. 

28. Profit Sharing. 

29. She Studied Oxford Theology on Boston Common. 

30. A Harvest Welcome. 
71. True Manhood. 



Digitized by the Internet Archive 
in 2010 with funding from 
The Library of Congress 



http://www.archive.org/details/gnomicsunbeamsOOshaw 



BABY BOY. 



Lines to Mrs. C. F- 



Gracious ! you don't mean to tell me 

A genuine baby ? 
Well, well ; if this news don't quell me ! 
Two eyes, two ears, a nose, and some ten little toes. 

A masculine baby. 

'Tis a wonder. 

I'm astonished. 

Here ; let me take tliis to the light. 

" Of a son." 
(Ah ! yes, paper, I read you right.) 
Two feet, and two arms, and some other little charms. 

Have me done, 

Rent asunder, 

I'm admonished. 

Babies ; live gifts from on high, 

Your baby boy ; 
Are calling to the angels when they cry. 

Dear babv bov, 
The cooing from his lips, his moving finger-tips 
Are but reachings 
For parted strands 
From his " Brother.*' 



See ; I have laid the paper down to think 

Of your boy. 
Dear friend, I hope he will be a link 

Of pure joy 
Between the Lord and you, who hath ever been true 
To His teachings, 
His wise demands. 
You are " Mother." 



TIBI SEPiIS, TIBI METIS. 



Whoso Uft-pctli the l;i\v is a wise son; hut lie tlint is the companion of riot- 
ous men shanielh his fatlier. — Proverbs, xxzii/'., 7. 



Whoso — This alludes to you, forgetful young men. 
Keepeth — Holds fast, changing not, as a weather vane ; 
The steady, honest, proud purpose to succeed in life. 
Law of the Most High studies ; and findeth aid in the 

strife. 
Is knowledge gained through the companionship of sin 
A source of future happiness, or producer of ruin.'' 

Wise men tell us, who by inspiration have been taught, 
Son — "That by the Cross lies the true path to be sought." 
But you must seek — repentant — willing Him to believe. 
He then will plead for thee, and from God thou wilt receive 
That peace which " passeth all understanding." Only ask : 
Is this not a good plan ? Is it not a loving task ? 
The "yoke is easy," and the "burden is light," dear boy. 
Co7?ipafiio?i of your Saviour be ; make an effort — try. 
Of the Prodigal Son's " misery " thou wilt be free. 
Riotous living — mad dream of a fool — believe me. 
Men who spend their days thus do live, and die unknown, 
Shameth their relatives ; of them nothing good is shown. 
His " Road," that " narrow street " to eternal bliss is best. 
/v7///tV'-in-Heaven, lead our boys to Thee with zest. 



SUJYBEAM. 



Sunny her nature is — cosy and bright, 
C/hfurled kindly to my wondering sight. -- 
JVot at all darkened by fortune's sad flight ; 
But so loving ! soothing ! — just about right. 
jSach evening's sleepy kiss — " Uncle, good-night." 
^nd each morning's glad ditto — welcome, quite. 
My Alice — " Angel of Sweetness and Light." 



10 



so J\f OLA'S PRAYER. 



John, xiv., 13. 

" Great Manitoii, I do adore Thee! " 
Prayed this Indian mother true; 

" Father of all, I bow before Thee, 
Humbly this petition sue : — 

"My son, that comfort Thou did'st lend me — 

My ' Strong-Arm '—this many moons past — 
From the Chaudiere's tide does send me 

A thought, — this day ma}' be his last. 

See, the ' Evil-One ' is in the river. 
The waves are rolling mad and deep; 

Gi'eat Manitou, of help the Giver, 
Send this ' Boiling-One ' to sleep. 
When in goodness Thou lent us Thy brightness 

To cheer us in the early morning time. 
He, my ' Strong-Arm,' in spirit of lightness 

Did down the steep bank of the river climb. 
Into his canoe did gently leap. 

Sending back to ' Sonola ' a sweet sign 
Of love for his mother — her pride to keep. 

Right proudly did I watch this gift of Thine. 

But now the ' Evil-One ' is boiling; 
Great Manitou, have pity on me! 

See, my ' Strong-Arm ' is in her toiling! 
Father of all. save him! — I thank Thee." 

Thus prayer from the lone wigwam is heard; 

" Great Manitou " has made the storm be still. 
Paleface mother, if you only could be stirred 

To do likewise— God will thv fond wish fulfil. 



11 



IN' MEMORIAM, 



JOHN BOYLE O'REILLY. 

"Suaviter in modo, fortiter in re." 

O'Reilly gone ! Dead ! Did I understand you to say? 

He, who hath been our friend, this many a day ? 
Who now will paddle our "canoes" — pray ! 

Through the rapids, past storm-beaten shore : 
Tell me 1 

Boyle ! Companion of our solitude — dead ! 

'Tis sad to hear. He, who hath our hearts fed 
With comforting food. The last link hath fled 

From her convict's chain ; England's chase is o'er. 

You see "^ 

John, 'tis late to send thee thanks, for the rest 

Thy pen hath given. Dear friend ; " What is — is best." 

Pilot to that harbor; thy skill hath stood the test 
Safe round the bend — Good bye — 'tis dark no more 
For thee. 



The author respectfully makes this statement : The above lines 
have jto reference to religious or political matters, whatsoever — as he 
differed veiy widely from the late poet on these subjects. But feel- 
ing the loss — his loss, as a student of English literature — he thus 
strove to lay his humble wreath around the forever-sealed ink-well of 
this sweet-toned master of a loved art. He hopes that the above is 
explanation sufficient to inquirers and all unsigned letter writers. 

The Author. 

[N. B. — The above poem was published in a Boston daily paper.] 

12 



THE GIRL AT MO, 88. 



She dresses nice, 

She will suffice, 
The most factitious. 

Ever smiling, 

Quite beguiling. 
She's just delicious. 
She's sun^ to be somebody's fate. 
This girl who lives at 88. 

She has a bonnet, 

Sweet as a sonnet — 
A fascinating gait. 

At times we meet. 

Boys, it's a treat, 
Indulged in of late. 
She's charming. I beg leave to state 
This girl who lives at 88. 

She will talk well, 

A story tell, 
That sounds immense. 

She'll listen, too ; 

Then give to you 
Her smiles intense. 
I tell you, you'd appreciate 
This girl who lives at 88. 



13 



She's a nice little, high price little dear ; 
Her blue eyes, would you surprise, Sir Leer. 
If you dare proach, on her encroach, be a cur. 
She trips lightly, quite sightly, by my door. 
She may be a flirt, but that wont hurt her ore 
She's pure metal, she will you settle. Sir. 
And so, to close, I propose to elate 
This girl who lives at No. ^'i. 



14 



J\^OT AVAILABLE. 



^} 



" Be thou contented. 

Take thy rest — sleep, Thou hast food, raiment and warm 

fire. 
Be still." 

As though of the canine race, I 
Should not aspire. 



Bah ! 'tis always thus — misjudging — 

Measuring the Outward. Of dim vision 

They do not see what a struggle 

Deep within me, continuously, is up 

In arms fighting to seize, perchance capture, " Desire." 

A battle 'twixt laudable " Ambition," pure. 

And this ceaseless round of mere existence. 

A Prisoner behind state bars, 

A law-breaker, 

Is better off than I. — Freedom 

Of action his desire orranted is. Time 

Will break state bars. But I, aye, freedom have 

Now. Alone to roam in this crowded mart : 

Made miserable by bartered " Purity." 

I desire to do — To have of " Success " 



15 



A mediocrity ; to satisfy 
The cravings of mine 
A surfeit — this faikire. 



The cravings of mine heart.- 'Tis of life's meed 



Thus I for a time " Hope " lose ; 
But she, coy "Maid" of delusion, smiles. 
And again try I that " Goliah " to slay — 
"Failure," — -Try — language of my soul indite 
Till " Success " shall, in wondering pride, deck, 
With her garland, my battle-scarred brow. "Hope" 
And thou, " Ambition," elusive " Heat" — Come ! 
Lend thine arms ; fostering. "^ # - # ^ 



List ! there is " One " 
Who of "Love " teaches of " Success " the Better. 
So " Ambition " cease. No failure. 
" Love " is available — Giver of " Good." 

" Gratiasy 



16 



SOMETHIJfG, 



You ask, but inquisitive you're not. 

'Tis from a sympathizing heart. 
" Mother's " wish to soothe a tender spot ; 

To mend what is broken apart. 

A " Something" you think I ought to tell, 

That is gnawing at my heart's core. 
" Mother," you think could break this sad spell, 

Which at times worries me full sore. 

Ah, yes! " Something" that's painful to touch. 

Old, surely, but anew will bleed, 
When given but slight cause. " So nething!" Such 

As is best buried deep ; life's meed. 

" Something "— " Nothing "—be " Mother," forget. 

These dark hours of sadness will pass 
To and fro ; for, 'tis true, I'm beset 

At times with pain ; a dreary mass. 

" Something"—" What" ? Ah ? " Mother," that's the rub. 

Suppositions — realities — 
Wisdom — " Diogenes in his tub." 

Knowledge and power — frailties. 

" Mother," I know you do wish to place 
A " Bandage " of love round my heart ; 

With " Oil" of peace thus to interlace. 
To encompass, drown out this smart. 



17 



Therefore, I admit, 'tis in kindness 

You have these questions propounded ; 

But put them by. I, in n.y blindness, 
Prefer that I be not sounded. 



Please let things, the old wounds, rest. 
God is love. Whatever is, is best. 
You're " Mother," longing to test 
Your wondrous power, hereni confessed. 
Be content. In you I am blest. 
Please do not interfere. Suggest 
Jesus — " Pain Reliever." A nest 
In which I may lie. Make request 
In your prayers ! 'Twill be love's zest. 



LcS 



DIES IRAE. 



A scorner seeketh wisdom, and findeth it not, but knowledge is 
easy unto him that understandeth. — Proverbs, xiv., 6. 

A young man spending his time on the street, 
Scorner of all that is perfect and sweet, 
Seeketh he that with which the devil doth treat — 
Wisdom of evil, lying there at his feet : 
And thus his hours are always wasted. 
Findeth he pleasure ? Ah yes, that is true ! 
It is pleasing ; but some day he'll rue 
JVot having listened to a Council of Two. 
But God is forgiving. Will you not sue .'' 
Kiiowledge of Jesus — this should be tasted. 
Is the night spent in this sinful way 
Easy, dear boy, to repeat forever and aye ? 
Unto God you must give an account of your stay, 
Him you must love, ere you do lay 
That which He gave, for its " sleep " under the clay. 
Understa?ideth thou ? Go home, and pray. 



19 



A TEACHER'S TALK TO HIS 
SCHOLARS. 



Trust in, believe in the things taught in the Bible, boys. 
A majority of the world's great men are Bible students, 
believers, teachers of its truths. Remember, if your 
soul be thus made pure, the face will shine with very 
brightness. " For the face is the soul's dial-plate ; it 
records all the emotions of the heart. Thoughts chisel 
their likeness on the brow ; emotions throw their glare 
into the eye ; passions paint their hues upon the face." 

Then again purity of thought leads to pity for life's 
sorrowing ones. Those poor, sad, sin-tossed mortals, 
evidences, witnesses to the truth of the fifth verse of the 
twentieth chapter of Exodus — the Lord's oddities. Ah, 
boys, young men, do not mock, laugh, or jeer at such ; they, 
too, have feelings ; life is hard, more hard to bear for one 
who brings through life's journey a stamp of iniquity, of 
either self, or parents on him, than for you, perchance the 
son of a loving, doting father, or mother, or both. Pity 
the poor, the down-trodden, the outcast, the forsaken ; but 
hate, with a deep hatred, the original progenitor of sin, 
heaven's dethroned angel, the devil. 

Be charitable. By giving of your money to good works a 
man stamps as it were the image of God upon it, and 
makes it pass current for the merchandise of heaven. Re- 
member the "boy" who gave water in the story of " Ben 
Hur," to the thirsty travellers — even the Carpenter's Son. 



20 



Follow him as far as possible, and there is, it may be said, 
no limit to the possibilities in a seed of kindness sown ; it 
will grow. "Nothing is impossible," was a motto of 
Napoleon I. 

Let Jesus be your Lock, your Rock. Don't be ashamed 
to pray. Why, boy ! 'tis a not-to-be-purchased privilege ; 
praying, talking to your father, God ; your brother, Jesus, 
a;nd feeling, hearing the answers thereunto. 

Jesus, Brother, forgive poor sorrowing me. 

These sins I have committed. 
Master, I will try to love and follow Thee ; 

Who for me life forfeited. 



21 



IS LIFE A FAILURE? 



We know "that of the dust of the ground man was formed;" 
With breath from his Creator became he a living soul — 

In Paradise dwelt ; by the Lord's love for him warmed, 
Made ready for his life's duties. This was to be his 
dole — 

To dress, and to keep the garden ; to be free from sin ; 
To enjoy all, less the Tree, of knowledge ; but therein 

— Adam was a failure. 

" For the Lord said : Man to be alone is not good ; 

I will for this, my Adam, a female, a helpmeet make." 
And while the male slept a deep sleep (we've understood) 
"God parted his flesh" and " from the man's side a rib 
did take." 
" Made He a woman" — so pure — and brought her to her 
mate. 
" Bone of his bone " " flesh of his flesh." She of the 

tree ate. 
— This woman a failure. 

"The serpent said to her : Eat, and ye shall not die, 

But be as gods ; having a knowledge of good and evil." 
— She took of the fruit and did eat — pshaw, what a lie ! 

He, the tempter, had uttered — deceiving, smiling devil ! 
She gave of it to her husband with her, and he, too. 

Saw their nakedness : — So to fig leaves, and hiding flew. 

— Paradise a failure. 



22 



"Cain a tiller of ground — Abel, keeper of sheep." 

The first-born Son offered to God a sacrifice of fruit. 
The second of his fiock — a firstling, of fat deep. 

The Lord accepted Abel's — but that of Cain did not suit. 
Then a bad spirit took strong hold of the elder son. 

He slew his brother Abel. Thus murder first was done. 

— Cain, their child, a failure. 



Men, women think they love — to them children are sent. 
Pure, sweet, little gifts of delusion ; this saddened, old 
earth 
Is not the place for you. My God ! why are they lent 

To crime and to misery ; to Satan's maddening mirth ? 
I see a sample of you, crawling along the path. 

Weak, misshapen odd limbs. For thee my heart pity 

hath. 
— Will vou be a failure ? 



Behind the closed doors of the wine-room, very snug, 

At a table drinking, lonely mother, sits your grown boy. 
Does he think of you and home, while rattling that mug 
For additional " confusion ? " Ah, poor widow ! you 
sigh : 
" Why is it thus, my God ? Why is Satan so near him ? 
Why not spend his hours with me ? Dear Lord, my eye 

is dim. 
— Is my poor son a failure ? " 



23 



In a splendid mansion, replete with works of art, 

Lies your poor, lovely daughter, sinful pleasure her 
intent. 
You wonder, sad father, and with a weary heart 

Go forth to seek, to coax, to win her back. You may 
have lent. 
Perchance, by example, fondness for this wicked state. 
Your child has crossed the stream, " Purity." "Lord, 

Am I late ? 
— Is my daughter a failure } " 



We read in the daily papers of "blind" husbands 

Hunting with revolvers for their home's wilful destroyer; 
Threatening vengeance, muttering confused commands 
To those about. Venting on " Some-one " curses deep 
and dire — 
Shooting, killing, mad, blood all boiling — in a full rush — 

"God ( ) this Some-one who has procured my " — 

(But hush ! hush !) 
" Pray — Is my wife a failure ? " 



A woman, shabby-dressed, with sad, old look does walk 

Near me on the street. There's a something peculiarly 
odd 
About her. The bright Sun her poverty does mock. 

Of a sudden, she is staggering ; murmuring : " O, God ! 
My John ! Husband." (But John — Bah ! the usual matter. 

His smiling arm-mate is full of her sinful chatter.) 

— " Is my husband a failure .'' " 



24 



" Is life a failure ?" No, misshapen child, it's not. 

No, lone mother; Jesus for the remission of sin, died. 
No, sad father ; not even for her whom you sought. 

No, poor, wronged husband ; who for vengeance so wildly- 
cried. 
No, worn out, forsaken wife ; it's to be a success. 

For the dear Father's loving arm will round you all 

press. 
— Life is not a failure. 

Just believe Him, this loving crucified Brother. 

Believe on the Cross of Golgotha ; love the Lord — obey. 
Child, wife, husband, father, and lone widow-mother ; 

Turn again to your Bibles, read them, think, kneel, and 
then pray : 
" Jesus, Saviour, forgive, receive, comfort, Thou poor me." 

Prayed, prayer is truly answered. Come, trust and see. 

— Taste " Life," real ; a success. 



25 



SUJYBEAM AJYD THE BELL. 



Come, listen and I'll sing to you 
A song that'll bring to you 

The smile of contentment. 
Hark ! 'tis the bell : " Jingle," " Jingle. 
Ah, friend, does this mingle 

A thought of resentment ? 

Poor breakfast bell. 



This ringing : — the usual call . 
The meal, you'll like it all. 

So nice on the table. 
" Patter ; " Good, she's coming for me. 
" Rap," " tap," on the door. See 

I'm singing no fable, 

That breakfast bell. 



Please, friend, do not be mistaken. 
For I've not forsaken 

My sweet-toned profession ; 
To sing to you of dear Sunbeam. 
We make quite a strong team. 

So I yield concession, 

Dear breakfast bell. 



26 



" Come in," I call from my writing ; 
Where I've Hero fighting 

Against saddening fate. 
(The door opes): — " Good-morning, Sunbeam ; 
In the light you do seem 

Like a rose-bud elate." 

Good breakfast bell. 

" Dear Uncle Tom, 'tis breakfast tine, 
Mama says : Come, and 'tis fine." 

I put my arms round her, 
I kiss her ; and think I am right. 
"Angel of Sweetness — Light," 

For so God hath crowned her, 

Ring, breakfast bell. 

And then, hand-in-hand, out we go, 
Down stairs, and so below, 

With never a tumbling. 
Lord, I thank Thee for this choice gift 
Of Sunbeam. She does lift 

My heart above grumbling. 

Stop, breakfast bell. 



27 




mi 



"9, 



IJ^CIDEJYTAL SLUMMIJYG. 



The day is dull, gray, dreary. The leaves are falling. 
Wind blowing a solemn requiem through the trees, in re- 
membrance of the past season's sunshine. The rain falls; 
now here, now there, at all angles, just as 'tis let, or hin- 
dered, by these sporadic actions of the cold, chilly 
atmosphere. 

Not a very appropriate occasion for an out-door 
excursion. 

Yes, he knew 'twould be a splendid opportunity to sit by 
his desk, and rummage through old papers — poems, 
save the title. They never were, nor never will be, pub- 
lished ; dreams, idle imaginings. To spend the long 
afternoon thinking, dreaming, reading the effusions of 
sometime friends, long since gone to hunt for new friend- 
ship — may they there adhere. Perchance to read the 
sweet, pure words of comfort, written by relative, or true 
friend, before going to the Promised Land. Ah, yes ! 
sweet, bitter : the hours would pass. Then again, not for- 



29 



getting to hug himself with that satisfying squeeze, caress 
of selfishness, which poor, lone old fellows, in his posi- 
tion, are prone to fall into the habit of. 

So he leans back in the easy chair, wrapped in his cosy, 
warm dressing-gown, so restful ! Thinking, dreaming, too 
bad to spoil ; to break in ; but are we ? Life is just a 
series of awakenings, and fallings into oblivion again, 
sleep, peace, quiet, hush ! 

Putting on a pair of heavy boots, a macintosh, and a 
cloth cap, he leaves his warm room for what ? 

Well, I'll tell you. He had a cousin who wanted a piece 
of dress-goods matched. A letter had come that day 
from her home in the Berkshire Hills, containing a sam- 
ple ; requesting him to see to it immediately. This epistle 
and sample lay on his desk, and had been a source of 
worry all the morning. It would not do to wait till to- 
morrow, and probable sunshine ; no — he knew by ex- 
perience the value of despatch in filling orders received 
from this fair relative. 

For the lady would repeat to herself in this wise : "Now, 
I mailed that sample to cousin Harry at 6 P. M. yester- 
day; it will reach Boston by midnight; be delivered by 
the 9 o'clock post. He ought to send me the goods by 
evening ; then I'll receive them to-morrow." 

Woe betide poor Harry if said dress materials, or sam- 
ples are not in this cousin's hands within the time 
limit. 

Down the hill to the main street for a car. How slippery 
.the dead and dying leaves make the wet pavement! He 
has to " hang on " — car is crowded — " standing room 
only " for one " perpetual " more. 

30 



" I wish cousin Edie and her dress-goods were at — at 
the North Pole. No, I don't either ; she's a good, sweet 
girl. O, pshaw ! what a fool am I ! Why didn't I stay at 
home ? " Harry murmurs to himself. 

Because a gentleman must be obliging, my boy. 

At last Jordan's. His feet are wet, or foot rather. 

One of those beautiful as-a-Will-Carleton-poem Somer- 
ville young ladies — such as the poetic editor of the Jour- 
nal sings about in his paper so much — placed the tip of 
her dripping umbrella square between the lace-holes of his 
boot. Oak-tan soles don't hinder dampness in this case. 

That ministerial-looking chap of a clerk, at the coun- 
ter — cool, neat, smooth ; not a line ruffled in his entire 
apparel — smiled a conceited, provoking smile, as, viewing 
Harry's " tossed-up" condition, and being well aware of 
his own immaculate tidiness, he waited our obliging Bos- 
tonian's orders. 

Where had he put it ? In what pocket ? No ; not in 
the macintosh, nor inside coat. Ah ! he had it not ! He 
has not taken it with him. It was at home, with Edie's 
letter — in his desk. Too bad, but no help for it. It 
would be impossible to make another trip this afternoon. 
He will have to take his scolding meekly. This absent- 
minded blockhead ! 

While standing at the large centre door on Washington 
street, waiting for his car, he heard : 

" Mister, buy a Reckid — one cent." 

Looking down he beheld a large, round derby hat, big 
enough for Harrison's grandsire ; a long, black, faded, 
sometime dress-coat ; trousers, just the fashion as regards 
width, twenty-three inches, more or less, at the bottoms ; 



31 



or I should say at the knees — they were rolled up that 
distance to better suit the legs of the small chap who wore 
them ; feet, bare. Underneath the derby a small, pinched, 
sad, weary face, showing signs of past and present pov- 
erty. A little woe-begone mouth, that, in spite of all men- 
tal feeling, held lines of rare beauty. The lips being 
small, arched, and tightly drawn, or pressed against as 
pretty a set of ivories as can be found in Boston, Back 
Bay included. But the eyes — ah, me! what symphony of 
hidden, and visible charms — large, deep, so full of pathos ! 
— a perfect brown in color. 

How Harry's heart went out to this little news-mer- 
chant. " Yes, give me two. Young fellow, what's your 
name } Where do you live ? Why do you sell papers ?" 

" Willie Hodgson — South Boston, Gold street — I sell 
papers 'cause mother's sick abed, and — well Dad's skipt," 
came truthfully from the little shaver. "And," he con- 
tinued, " old Maloney wants his rent — three dollars for 
two rooms. We are poor, that's all I can make in a week, 
and I must hustle, you bet. Mister Longcoat, to do that." 

'Twixt the calling of his wares he gave Harry this rather 
disjointed family history. 

Our absent-minded friend is off again — dreaming, 
" could it be ? No, no. But the name. Bah ! A great 
many people carry the name Hodgson — common, ordinary 
cognomen. The eyes — those eyes — her eyes ! " 

" Mister, give me — me two cents, if you please ; 'n let me 
go," says Willie. 

Harry looks at his watch. His mind is made up. 
" Say, Jay Gould, Jr. ; what's your entire stock invoiced 



32 



for ? That is to say, supposing you disposed of all your 
papers ; how much will they bring you ? " 

" Thirty cents." 

"Well, here's a half-dollar ; come with me ; I'm going 
to see your sick mother." 

" You be. Well, I never," ejaculated Jay, Jr. "All 
right, Russell Sage ; I'm with ye." 

Stopping a passing herdic, motioning the surprised 
youngster to climb in, Harry follows. Soon they are 
rattling down Washington street, to Beach, to the Southern 
depots, down Federal ; over the bridge, up Dorchester 
avenue, into Gold street. 

During the drive Harry persuaded the boy to speak of 
his home — mother — father. From which he gathered that 
the parents were originally from Maine — one time better 
off : the father being a dentist, practising his profession in 
a large town on the banks of the Penobscot — but not being 
marriedin a " Heavenly " sense quarrels sprang up, from 
some unknown cause. From these petty misunderstandings 
the " noble" husband and father took to drink. Satan's 
" Coffee " is as easily obtainable in prohibitory Maine as 
licensed Boston. This drink habit caused a loss of busi- 
ness. They moved to the Bay State. Matters did not 
improve. The head of the family continued to imbibe 
" contention," and then, to use the expressive language of 
our young merchant, " Dad skipt." 

The driver, ordered by Willie, drew up his jaded ani- 
mal before the door of one of those high-storied tene- 
ments ; wooden, flat-roofed, and angular, peculiar to the 
Peninsular district, devoid of beauty, even when given an 
acre lot to stand in ; much less in this narrow fifteen-foot 



33 



street. " Gold," forsooth — very little if any of the article 
is seen in this quarter of modern Athens. 

A number of poor, half-clad children are roaming about 
the door-steps ; playing in the rain, and mud puddles ; 
throwing handfuls of "gold " dust ! wet, and slimy, at each 
other. Their aims were accurate ; consequently " mud- 
slinging " was fun for these " presidential possibilities." 

" It's up two flights. Mister, — back. Let me go first, 
'cause it's dark," says Willie." 

" All right, boy." 

Dismissing the herdic, Harry follows, as nimbly as pos- 
sible, up the crooked, shaking, old stairs, to find Willie 
standing in the open doorway of what seemed, in the 
darkening twilight, to be a bed-room ; but on closer and 
clearer inspection disclosed a combination, to wit : — A 
kitchen, dining, living-room by day ; by night, with aid of 
one of those folding mantle-beds it did, or tried to do, duty 
as a sleeping apartment. 

There was one window, from which could be seen a 
patch of dark sky. 

A bare, pine table, three or four old, wooden chairs, 
with the aforementioned bed, comprised the movable 
furniture of the room. 

On the table was some old stoneware china — odd 
pieces ; that is to say, a couple of teacups without handles, 
a cracked milk pitcher, a few "misfit" plates, old brass 
spoons, two or three knives and forks, and one or two 
nondescript articles. On one of the plates were the re- 
mains of a loaf of brown bread — no plums there ; on another 
some cold beans ; on a third a small piece of pork — from 



34 



which, in the fast fading daylight, could just be dis- 
tinguished the bristles. 

On the walls were pasted some lithographs — tobacco 
advertisements, etc., having a rather suggestive stagey 
appearance, but bright in coloring. 

There was on the floor a piece of dirty, old carpet ; once 
perchance a famous eastern rug, but long ago out-worn its 
pristine beauty. 

No fire in the range, nor any coal in the bin back of it. 

In very truth the room's contents were "nil." 

It was most dark. 

"Willie, what do you use for lighting purposes ?" 

" Mostly nothing, sir — we sits in the dark — it's cheap- 
er," was the answer. 

" Yes, I know ; but have you not a lamp, or gas, or even 
a candle ? " 

"We've a lamp, sir; but there's no ile — Maloney 
turned off the gas last week, 'cause we couldn't pay him 
his rent. No, there's nare a candle." 

" Well, see here, Willie ; take this bill, have the oil-can 
filled ; order up some coal, and kindling wood. Go round 
to a dining-room on Broadway or elsewhere ; tell them to 
send up a hot dinner, for three ; plenty of broth, or soup — 
now hurry." 

" Hurrah ! for you, Russell Sage," sang Jay, Jr. 

While the boy was gone on his errands, Harry could do 
nothing but wait. He could not see in the dark. He 
could not tell whether yon, poor, forsaken wife was asleep, 
or not. He had seen a form in the bed sometime pre- 
vious, which he rightly judged to be the sick woman, 
mother of Willie. 



35 



He went to the window, and looked oVit — up towards 
the dark patch of sky : 

"Dear Lord, whatever is, is best." 

He questioned within himself if it was at all possible to 
supply the " wants " of these two poor mortals. Their 
present pressing " needs " he certainly could, and would ; 
but their "wants." — 

" Dear Master, 'tis with thee." 

" Coal ! coal ! " Came in a deep Irish tone from a 
dark figure in the doorway. 

" Yes, my man ; dump your basket in this box. Here, 
give me that package of kindling-wood, so, thank you." 

" Sad case, doctor," loudly whispered Pat, pointing to 
the bed, with a jerk of his grimy thumb over his ditto 
shoulder. 

" Yes — yes ; good-night." 

Having some matches in his pocket-case, Harry soon 
had a fire started — burning brightly — token of future 
warmth. 

Then came Willie with the oil. A cheap-looking lamp 
was produced from the other room, cleansed, and filled. 
Its rays, cheerful by contrast with the long period of semi- 
darkness, lighting up this poor home. 

Next a waiter, with a large covered basket containing 
warm broth, meat, bread, a large apple-pie, and other eat- 
ables, and condiments. 

Clearing off the table, drawing it up, after the restaurant 

36 



attache had left, from the wall to the bed side ; spreading 
the large napkins, found in the basket, on it ; placing the 
lamp, and food in position, also a chair for Willie, (who 
has been lost in amazement, watching our Harry) — and 
another for himself ; the Bostonian requested the sick 
mother to sit up in bed, and eat. She did so. 

Yes, her eyes were her boy's, or rather vice versa — 
larse, beautiful, brown. The cheek bones were somewhat 
prominent ; but then sickness would have a tendency to 
produce this. The mouth small — the teeth fine, even, and 
still pearly. For a cetainty, mother and son were very 
similar in facial appearances. 

This woman watched Harry's movements, as he took a 
few mouthfuls, so to encourage them. Ikit draw her into 
conversation he could not ; nothing but : " God will bless 
you, you are so kind," and such like phrases. 

The sick one ate a little — took some broth and seemed 
to warm up wonderfully under the combined influence of 
the coal fire, the lamp's light, and the nourishing food. 

But talk of herself — no ; she would not. 

After the meal Willie handed the change of the bill to 
Mr. Harry, which he (Harry), requesting the mother's 
wallet, deposited therein, adding another gold certificate, 
and laughing at the boy's wondering looks the while. 

Then bidding them a friendly " Good-bye " — promising 
to call again — he left. But not before the sick woman 
had taken his hand — kissed it — blessed him, saying : — 
" Mr. F — , the Lord will reward you." 

" How do you know my name, good woman ? " 

" O, I know you — you are some older, that's all. I 



37 



knew you long ago in t)etter days — before — But don't ask 
me questions now ; pray, go away ; God bless you." 

Calling at Maloney's on the street floor , Harry paid 
this Irish, rack-renting landlord the rent, due for two 
weeks, and two more in advance ; telling him to turn on 
the gas immediately, and to inform his tenants of this 
fact. 

Then to Dorchester avenue — home, and home comforts 
— his rest — his " sense of slippers after boots " — a warm, 
cosy room — a " more " cosy wrapper — and a " most " cosy 
feeling, that at least one occasion of absent-mindedness, — 
dreaming, had been turned to good account. 

And as he sits thinking of this sick woman — of her 
beautiful, brown eyes, his thoughts wander back to the 
years of youthful manhood, to past scenes — incidents. He 
still sleeps. He's tired. 

The door opens. A flaxen-haired, blue-eyed, loving, 
little girl comes in — claps her hands, and then : — 

" Why, Uncle Harry ! don't you hear the supper-bell } 
You must have been sleeping all afternoon." 



-^^^,'^^B- 
^-^>^—^^-^-=^^ 



38 



MA CHERE. 



(J'ai besoin de vous parler.) 
I am weary of this dark road, 
My feet refuse their wonted load; 
I feel the need, Marie, of those days 
Before the Sun obscured her rays 
Behind our cloud. 



(Tu me fais mal.) 

With bowed head I travel alone, 

Asking why that heart grew as stone 

Which once was mine own ? For so you swore 

Under the apple-tree, near the door. 

On His book aloud. 



(" Je vous aimerai.'') 
You remember that July day ? — 
Call it back, one moment, I pray. — 
I led you through the gate to that tree. 
There you promised to be true to me. 
Your Felix — proud ! 



41 



(Je ne sais qu'en penser.) 

Promised with one hand held in mine, 

The other on the Book divine, 

With eyes, how wondrous brown ! — full of tears ; 

With kisses, how sweet ! you calmed my fears. 

Before God you bowed. 



(" Que cherchez — vous, Felix ? ") 

( Je cherche, ma Pensee.) 

I left you more than satisfied ; 

My Bible, tears, and kisses tried. 

" Ah ! " Thought I ; "The Serpent is not there. 

' Tis an Eden. No need of repair." 

"Belle," was I blind? 



(Je vous aimais, Marie.) 
For a time your notes were so sweet ! 
Full of innocence, they did treat 
Me, to such a picture of pure bliss 
That I could not ever think of this 
Misery. How kind ! 



42 



(Laissez — moi f aire mon devoir ?) 
The tone then changed, slightly at first, 
Till uncanny grew. Was I curst 
Like Adam of old ? " Daughter of Eve," 
Answer me truly. Why did you cleave 
To " Cure-dents ? "—my Eden ! 



(Fermez les persiennes.) 

But I forgive. 'Twas a madness, 

Or fit of distracting sadness. 

Our quarrel is quite an unfair fight, 

Venez, ma belle Marie, and cling tight. 

Have His Peace — my Sedan ! 



(Qii mene cette route, Marie ?) 
I'll not ask you, " Belle," to explain 
The cause of "//^/i-," in which you've lain 
Ma Marie, no ! Come back to the tree 
And we'll take a new pledge, you and me ; 
Before God be made pure. 



43 



Marie, come ! cheer me, this dark day ; 

Come ! put a new hght in my way. 

(II est temps de se lever.) 

I will not, no, never, this " slip " tell ; 

Of this sorrow that to thee befel, 

By His Cross we'll endure, 

(Marie cela n' etait pas etonnant. 

Nos punitions sont severes 

Venez — I forgive — God forgives.) 




44 



SIC ITUR AD ASTRA. 



" No man putteth a piece of a new garment upon an old ; if other- 
wise, then both the new maketh a rent, and the piece that was taken 
out of the new agreeth not with the old." — Luke, v., 36. 



No^ friend, 'tis useless work this everlasting patching. 
Man, sinful child of Adam, must be born anew. 
Putteth pure thoughts into a wicked heart — attaching 
A priceless pearl to the finger of Sin won't do. 

Piece by piece is the foundation of '' Purity " built ; 

Of the flow from Golgotha's deep fountain cemented ; 

A strong, sure base is thus constructed. Free from all 

guilt 
New " Stones," gems of His example, thereby indented. 



" Garment-oi-sin,'' no doubt, handsome is to the eye. 
Upon it embroidered flowers ; enticing, bright. 
An article of beauty (?) to own which you sigh. 
Old Sin has his finger though on the lapel, tight. 
If you wear, or continue to wear, " this " you'll die. 
Otherwise, spurn it. Live, accept Jesus — be right. 
Then, though you're beset by Sin's fascinating glare. 
Both " Purity " and Heaven will help you declare 
The love of Jesus in your heart — to do, to dare. 



45 



New^ seamless garment of eternal life — God's gift — 

Maketh the wearer strong, as though a coat of mail. 

A life spent then endeavoring sinners to lift. 

Rent^ torn though they be — Sin's garment will not 

avail. 
And thou shalt be as a lighthouse to storm-tossed sail. 

The patching of an old wicked heart deep sunk in sin. 
Piece of new Cloth, forsooth ! to cover the place rent. 
That won't do, friend, except you are purged from within. 
Was ever anything unclean with success sent — 
Taken to oblivion thus ? No, of course not. 
Out with the idea ; accept Him Who has sought 
Ofyovcc heart to renew it ; Who with His blood bought 
The remission of all sins. Come to Him, accept 
New^ pure garments. For you the " Solid Rock " has 

kept — 
Agreeth He to keep you on the " Narrow Path " 
Not a day, a month, but for eternity hath. 

With the promise of a " Comforter " on the road — 
The sunshine of good deeds done will lighten your load. 
Old father Sin repulsed — sing a heavenly ode. 
Deo gratias. 



46 



HOME. 



'Tis best 

To rest, 

To cease, 

Have peace. 
For many a mile 
And many a trial 
You'll have to endure 
Before you are sure 
Of Home. 



Sleep well. 

Keep well, 

Say well, 

Pray well. 
Then Jesus, your Brother, 
And some long-lost other, 
Before it is too late, 
Will greet you at the gate 

Of Home. 



47 



A SIGH. 



Patience under misfortune, 
Courage to do and to dare, 

Meekness in time of anger, 

Thus the Lord's love to declare. 

Helpful, kindly, and so free ! 

Cheerily meeting trouble. 
Alex, dear boy, I miss thee 

Now we don't travel double. 

Much I'd give to regain thee ; 

All in this world that is mine. 
Ah, me ! how I would fain be 

Changing my dross at love's shrine. 

And now, at the close of day. 

Heart — wearied, baffled, dear boy. 

Thinking what strengthening stay 
Thy presence would have — 

I sigh ! 

Nov. 8, 1889. 

48 



A SABBATH SCHOOL SCHOLAR 
GLVES THAJVKS. 



For health — Life's blessings to enjoy ; 

To run, and walk and play around ; 
To come to school, and here apply 

Ourselves to Bible wisdom sound. 



For the Bible — God's Book so true ; 

A " Lamp of Love " through Sin's dark night ; 
A Help — a Comfort — Solace, too. 

Come ! read, and feel if we're not right. 



For our Library — Books instructive — 
Such a pleasure they'll be to read. 

Full of good stories productive 

Of gentle thoughts, our minds to feed. 



For our teachers — -The entire Staff — 
They do try God's Love to install. 

True we sometimes only laugh — laugh 
But forgive — Jesus knows it all. 



49 



Here we're taught of the Golden Rule, 

Of honesty, of self-denial. 
When away from teachers, and school. 

Jesus does help — We stand the trial. 



When out the sands of life have run, 
God will reward you for deeds done. 
Thanks for all ! 



50 



BILL. 



Only a boy — a small one, too, 
Trying to earn, of cents a few ; 
Anxious; willing something to do. 
The smallest shaver in the crew. 
Manly, though, and to the point true, 
Was Newsboy Bill. 



I took deep interest in him, 

As from under that old hat's rim 

He sang his wares, with voice not slim : 

" Herald, Globe, Reckid, ' cent."— A Sym. 

So rich in pathos, courage, vim ! 

Had Newsboy Bill. 



Day after day him I would meet, 
Running around with nimble feet, 
In and out of the crowded street. 
Always, he with a smile would greet 
Customers. With business replete 
Was Newsboy Bill. 



51 



Once I said : — " Bill — a moment stay ; 
How do you spend the Sabbath day ? " 
'' Lay abed — smoke — and sometimes play 
Tiddledy Winks with sister May." — 
" Church? " " No I'm not onto that lay," 
Wasn't Newsboy Bill ? 



To-day ; ah, me ! a sad, sad sight ; 
A mad horse — a small girl in fright, 
A hero brother — May all right. 
But our boy — well ; he gave his mite. 
A brave soul hath taken its flight. 
Our Angel Bill. 



52 



HIS WHISKERS RED, 



(Her Sneer.) 

" Poverty is no disgrace — 
But I hate that unclean face ; 
Do be shaved," she said. 



(Its Answer.) 

Madame, please, a moment pause, 
Lack of wealth is not the cause. 
His throat needs the aid ; 
Hence this hair. 



In time there'll grow thick, and swarm 

Round his chin, a forest warm — 

These, his whiskers ; red. 

True, the wind may through them blow. 

Caress, play " hide — seek," and sow 

Fun unlimited ; 

But not fair. 



53 



For though you may ply your joke — 
The sneer of derision poke 
At these whiskers red. 
When they have grown full- and fair : 
You know you'll like your chin there- 
in his whiskers, red — 
Tickling hair ! 



54 



DISAPPOIJYTMEJYT. 



An old tale. — A wearied head drops on to mine arm. 
I see these sights : 

(Ah! they do for the moment charm 
Me into forgetfulness) 

A Picture so rare ! 
A background, unmeasured, of inky blackness black. 
Above, twinkling stars, bright, and blue ; of them no lack. 
Below the heaven of this View ; a Woman, fair ; 
Smiling is, standing in a chariot of fire ; 
Drawn by prancing, milk-white steeds, which seem not to 

tire 
Of their lovely burden. They race my arm adown. 
Darkened the Scene awhile is. Then they reappear. 
Another, and still one more smile. Away, sad frown ! 
I lift mine head, encouraged — cheering Hope is here. 



65 



A LITTLE GinrS THAJYKS, 
JYOY: 27, 1890. 



For health — Life's blessings to enjoy — 
To run, and walk, and play around ; 

To come to school and here apply 
Myself to Bible wisdom sound. 

For Papa — So good, kind and true. 

He is here — look at him — that's right ; 
He gives me all I need — more, too ; 

I love him— I'll (rkTsD— At home to-night. 

For Mamma — dear, sweet mother — mine ; 

That is Mamma (a^ki'slO — there ; so demure- 
Who taught me to say : I am Thine. 

Mamma — so nice — I love her sure. 

'Tis right to S2iy grace before meat, 

To be thankful to God for food. 
There — there, now,8l don't want to eat 

My sister Grace, though she is good. 

I would also like to mention 

Some one else — but he'd rather not. 

— To the speakers pay attention 

And be thankful for what you've got. 



56 




^'''ffiiliwie^ 



A GLIMPSE OF LIFE IJV CAJVADA. 



A toll-gate on a lone Canada road. Thirty-six miles, 
more or less, northwest of Montreal. 

The road ran parallel to the Ottawa river — at a spot 
where the Ontario shore rises high and steep, forming a 
precipice of about ninety feet. It had been drilled and 
blasted from the solid lime-stone rock, for nigh onto a 
half-mile either side of the gate-house. 

The house is built immediately over the road, forming 
an arch, under which all passengers must travel. 

The back of the house was formed of lime-stone, being 
in fact a portion of the cliff, which rose about twenty-five 
feet higher than the top-most brick of its chimney. 

From the river, away below, this money-collecting 
agency looked semewhat like a large pigeon-house placed 
there by some good-hearted Canada farmer, out of the 
way, where they could brood in quietude and peace, these 
his pigeons. 

Near the door, which was in the centre under the arch, 
a barred gate was so fixed, by means of a hidden spring, 
that the receiver of the toll-money could, in case of a 



59 



disagreeable customer, touch- the aforementioned spring 
with his or her foot, and down would come the high gate ; 
effectually hindering further progress in that direction. 

But the cliff was there, and the river below. 

" The water passage was free." 

Yes, so were the short bushy palm trees, which studded 
thickly this steep incline to the water's edge — aye, free, 
and extremely dangerous. No, Mr. Miserly-customer, 
pay your copper — one copper for foot travellers, two for 
those with animals, was the " protective " tariff imposed by 
the road company ; and when you take into consideration 
the amount of labor and money spent in keeping the road 
in order this price was not exorbitant. 

At the time of which I am speaking the toll keeper was 
a woman, a widow. Her husband had been drowned on 
the Madawaska log-drive the preceding spring. A son 
had been appointed to perform the father's duties, while 
he (the father) was on the river. 

But this boy, or young man rather, was too fond of 
Moses Lepointe's bar, down below in the village, and the 
manager of the road had discharged him. 

In disgrace, the son hired as a raftsman, to go to Que- 
bec wdth a square-timber drive ; thus leaving the mother 
and a younger son — Willie — alone in the gate-house. 

This manager told this saddened widow to stop and 
collect tolls until such time as he could appoint another 
gate-keeper. 

One bright sunny morning Willie w^as instructed re- 
garding toll-duties, household work, etc., for the day, as 
his mother found it necessary to attend court, about some 



60 



law business regarding her husband's chiim for insurance. 

" Be careful, polite ; give the right change, don't show 
too much money, as there are many loose characters 
among the farmers and river men. You'll find some 
bread, cold pork, and cake in the cupboard ; and I have 
put some tea in the pot. Keep the fire going, not too 
fiercely — and be good, dear boy — Willie. You are my 
only comfort now. Good-bye, I'll be home by evening." 

Thus the mother left him, taking shaggy Jim, their 
sturdy Percheron horse, and odd, springless cart ; also a 
basket of eggs to exchange for tea and sugar. 

Proud boy, that — our embryo toll-keeper, standing at 
the door collecting coppers, pennies — giving change for 
five and ten cent pieces, fifties, and once or twice a dollar 
bill. Higher than that there was no call for; because 
money, paper money, is a rarity in this portion of Victoria's 
Dominions. 

During lulls of duty for the road company Willie busied 
himself sweeping the floor, keeping the fire going, bring- 
ing in wood from the shed, till the bin back of the large 
box-stove was full. 

Then with his big Sancho — his Newfoundland dog — he 
would sit by the western window, from which could be 
seen the river, watching the passing sails of pleasure ; the 
rafts of square timber, and of saw-logs, being towed to 
Montreal and Quebec ; listening to the "Puff — puff " of 
the tugs, and the " Here — a law " of the cheery river-men, 
keeping time to their movements in song. 

Everything was going along splendidly — no mistake in 
change, no bad men as travellers on the river-road. But 
he began to feel lonely. Mother did not come. The day 



61 



was fast fading away. It was growing — it grew — dark, 
and still no mother. 

What could have kept her so late ? 

No, he would not cry— that would not be manly. 

He got up from his seat on the low rocker near the fire, 
— lighted the lamps — put the large head lights in both 
east and west windows, with the blue glass in front ; laid 
the neat white cloth on the table for supper, refilled the 
kettle, and after placing plates, cups, saucers, knives, 
spoons, etc., in position for the evening meal, he began to 
toast some bread. Mother likes hot buttered toast. He 
just had one piece nicely browned and placed on a plate 
in the upper oven of the stove when : 

Hark! — Sancho barks ; runs to the door, growls, howls, 
barks again. Poor Willie trembles — 

" What could be the matter ? " 

This Canada boy is brave — he opens the door — with 
his lantern on his arm, conductor fashion — a snow white 
horse is galloping up the road from the east, galloping 
fast ; O, so fast ! 

A black robed figure sat on the horse urging the animal 
on — using whip and spurs, suddenly he reaches the house, 
Willie touches the spring ; down falls the gate — " No 
, thoroughfare, sir, without two cents." 

" Let me through, boy, — hinder me at your peril. This 
is a matter of life and death — my Vv^ife is dying — I'm 
going for a doctor." 

"Two cents, sir, please." 

" Here, you little rascal, here's my purse ; help your- 
self." 



62 



The boy's foot is raised — ditto the gate — and the un- 
known stranger passes, 

Willie picks up the purse and therein discovers bills 
upon bills, all of large denomination, the sum total repre- 
senting quite a fortune to our toll-keeper, but no coppers 
are there. 

He goes to his own little iron bank, takes out two cents 
— there are only a few left — and puts his money in the 
company's box, two bright new cents, he had earned 
working, raking hay one afternoon last August, on Mr. 
Tilson's farm. 

This Mr. Tilson was also the manager of the road and 
appointer of the toll-gate keeper. 

Then back to his toast-making came Willie, leaving the 
gentleman's purse on the supper table. Soon he hears a 
whistle, shrill, loud and long. 

" Ah ! the doctor." 

Again at the door. A penny is tossed at him through 
the door and rolls across the dining-room floor. 

Still no mother. 

Again he hears galloping — the clang of hoofs on the 
hard macadamized road. 

He goes to the door. 'Tis the white horse and its black- 
robed rider, still urging on his jaded, weary, foaming ani- 
mal. The gate is open. Willie runs in for the purse. 
But, no ; the man did not stop. On he went down the 
road. 

In about two hours — long, weary, lonely hours to Willie, 
for no mother came yet — 

" What can the matter be ? " 



63 



The toast is all done, long ago, nice and warm ; now 
waiting for hungry, absent mother. 

Willie hears the doctor's dog-cart. He hears everything 
so plainly, to-night; his hearing has wonderfully improved. 
He can hear the singing of the raftsmen down the river 
as round their cookery, on their timber, they have gath- 
ered for an evening confab and for singing. Their song 
sounds sweet across the water in the peace of the even- 
tide, running somewhat after this manner : 

V la r bon vent! 

V la r joli vent ! 

V la r bon vent ! 
Ma mie m' appelle ! 

V la r bon vent! 

V la r joli vent! 

V la V bon vent! 
Ma mie m' attend ! 

Visa le noir, 
Tua le blanc, 

Fringue ! Fringue, sur 1' aviron ! 
O his du Roi, 
Tu es mechant, 

Fringue ! Fringue, sur la riviere ! 
Fringue ! Fringue, sur 1' aviron ! 
(Le chien d' Or.) 

The cart stops under the arch. A whip handle raps 
the door. 

" Come in, please." 

Enter, the township's doctor — bluff, hearty, big, burly. 



64 



good-natured, with a most agreeable swivel in his off eye. 
Just the man to make poor, weary, sick humans take 
another grip on life. 

" Pull awa, mun ; ye're no deed yet," would this good 
physician sing, and the poor patien^ " pulled," when, lo, 
health came back ! Great health restorer was this town 
M. D. 

But I most forcjot the tall fisfure in the black ridins^- 
cloak, who also came in, behind the doctor. . Going over 
to the table, he of the long cloak picked up the purse, 
opened it, counted its contents, smiled, took from the roll 
of bills a twenty-dollar Bank-of-Valle-Marie token (Willie's 
back being turned) and putting it into the sugar bowl he 
again smiled. 

" Gentlemen, mother has not come home as yet, and I 
don't know whether or no she will come. Will you please 
to be seated and share my supper ? " Says the youthful 
gate-keeper, placing an additional plate, knife, fork, cup 
and saucer on the table. 

" Gentlemen, here is hot toast, cold sweet pork, tea 
and cake — plummy. Please assist in my repast." 

Thus grandly, politely, gentlemanly spoke Willie, 
urging his guests. 

Off came the long coat. The doctor's companion was 
Mr. Tilson. 

" Come, Doctor," spoke the latter gentleman. " You 
sit here at the head, I'll sit at the bottom, and Willie at 
the side nearest the oven and the hot toast." 

During supper Willie listened to Mr. Tilson tell of his 



65 



sick wife, of his finding the boy's mother in town, of his 
requesting her (the mother) to come and nurse his wife> 
of the galloping to the doctor's when the sickness took a 
sudden bad turn, of Willie's mother passing by in the 
doctor's cart ; and now they had come to tell him why no 
mother to-night — The doctor was going home, and Mr. 
Tilson would stay at the gate-house till morning, to collect 
toll from late travellers, etc. 

" I like that," remarked hospitable Willie. 

By and by the doctor left for his home. Willie 
played on his fiddle, made Sancho act all his funny tricks. 
Then Mr. Tilson read out of the Lord's Book, and they 
knelt while the elder follower of the Carpenter's Son 
prayed for this boy — for his mother — for the wayward 
brother — for his own wife and family and for themselves 
— to keep until morning. Amen. 

Then to bed. 

At day-break Willie was wakened by a kiss from his own 
sweet mother's lips. Mr. Tilson had left for home. The 
gentleman's wife was some better. 

His man had brought back the pony and cart from town. 

A letter was here for Willie. It was from the road 
manager, and was to the effect that after due trial, Willie 
having proven honest, brave and capable, was appoint- 
ed toll-gate keeper, at a salary of four hundred dollars a 
year — one hundred more than usually paid. 

The letter closed with a request to accept the contents 
of the sugar bowl ; and that the writer would consider it a 



66 



favor if Mr. Toll-gate-Keeper would call — make a habit 
of it, please — on the Tilsons. 

This latter wish would certainly be pleasing to Willie, 
for in all the county side from Montreal to Grenville 
there was no young lady so good, pure, and lovely as 
Nellie Tilson. 

(A Chapter from an Unpublished Novel.) 






67 



THAJ\^KSGI T Te/YG^. 



(Thoughts on the Day.) 

For 3'Oung and old the years are but few, 
Life's a school, therefore knowledge pursue ; 
To the Master give that which is due — 

A humble, thankful heart. 
For good health, which is better than gold — 
Brings relief from pain when bones wax old ; 
Lightens the load to the Shepherd's fold — 

For this gift thanks impart. 

For eyes to see, and for ears to hear — 
This power to worship without fear — 
Thy Creator, God ; Thy Saviour, dear ; 

Give thanks, friends, young and old. 
For children, parents, husband, or wife ; 
Which of these blessings you've in this life ; 
For home comfort — its surcease from strife, 

Be thankful ; pray, don't scold. 

Of the poor and needy mindful be, 

Of thy surplus give. " Returns to thee. 

Bread on the waters cast." Charity 

Brings sweet rest, remember. 
If some one has caused thee a sorrow, 
Forgive, now ; don't wait for the morrow ; 
If thine own strength fails, from Christ borrow. 

— This day of November. 



69 



For such success thou mayest have had, 

For days that were good ; for those thought bad, 

For hours that were happy, or were sad, 

Give thy thanks. God knows all. 
And when you sit down to your dinner, 
Thanks are due for — turkey, you sinner ! 
'Tis the Lord who makes you a winner ; 

This glad day in the Fall. 






.< 



70 



MAY 28tli, 1890. 



yust one score, 
^ach one, more 
iVbted, than the previous. 
Not a day was lost ; 
/n counting the cost ; 
Either spefit, or grievous. 

/hope that the future 
.Surpasses those years. 

/'hat Jesus with nurture 

When troubled with fears, 
jE'manuel ; Brother ; Saviour ; 
NbtQ the needs of her, my friend ; 
T^hou, Lord, grant, I plead this favour- 

YQ2LYsfull of usefubiess^ lend. 



71 



HIS QUATERMIOJY, QUOTIDIAJV 
QUERIES. 



Will some one rise and please tell him why- 
He is generally misunderstood ? 

Why his most kind endeavor to try 

To increase the pleasure of those who should 
Know him better — reaj>s him a sigh ? 

Will some one rise and please tell him when 
He has planted sufficient of this seed ? 

When he ought in charity halt ? Then 

Let the pure seeds grow, and with them the weed 
Of selfishness, found in all men. 

Will some one rise, and please tell him how 
He is to have success in his reaping ? 

How he's to harvest Peace in the row 

Grown in this garden ? To keep from weeping 
Over his crop ? Speak to him now. 

Will some one rise and please tell him where 
Little seeds of kindness should be planted ? 

Where ? — Hold ! perhaps 'tis wrong to compare 
Twixt sowing and harvest. — 

Be it granted 
That in Heaven you'll reap your share. 



72 



TED. 



(A letter to that boy.) 

This morning, dear friend, 
My thoughts they do tend 
Towards our late confab. 
As I with you contended 
I see how you defended 
Your smoking from my stab. 



Please to bear in mind 
Habit of this kind 
Is nothing but a fraud ; 
For a solace for troubles 
Go to Jesus, not baubles 
Nothing doth soothe like God. 



Hope you will forgive me, 
All but good relieve me. 
And I'll my lecture cease. 
May He who is without stain 
Make you strong and free from pain 
And give to you His peace. 



73 



PROFIT SHARING. 



As a stream from its water-shed started 
Gains volume, and force in flowing: 

As a germ from the buried seed parted 

Gains strength in its course while growing ; 



So if to a small trust faithful thou art 
A greater will fall in thy way. 

So bury self — play but a humble part. 
A noble will call for thy stay. 



As the sullen, gray sky of the morning 
Gains beauty anon from the sun : 

And as the damp grass the hills adorning 
Gains the gems at dawn it has won ; 



So thy faith upheld till the end does come 
Shares profits complete thou hast won : — 

A sleep, a journey, then awake at Home 

With greeting so sweet ! — " Son, well done." 



74 



SHE STUDIED OXFORD THEOLOGY 
OJV BOSTOA^ COMMOJV. 



" Oxford Theology ! " I want to know ! 

Is this a-new- Athenian- culture fad? 
It cannot be. She looked poor as a crow — 

This old woman — and so sad. 



Willi an ancient, faded, colored shawl on, 

And a more faded black skirt ; 
A bonnet — certainly ; but rather gone ; 

Likewise her old, damp shoes, all covered with dirt. 



She sat on a bench, the book on her lap ; 

Rare old nondescript, she is somebody's mother ; 
Rubbed her steel specs, gave her nose a tap ; 

Read one leaf, then another. 



" Justification," I saw, to be sure, 

Was the subject of this page. 
Theology — ah, me ! What a poor cure 

For the sore troubles of poverty and age ! 



75 



A sparrow is chirruping on yonder tree. 

Aged student, hold ! learn a lesson of trust. 
God doth provide for it — He will for thee. 

Theology — a mere rust. 



Love the Lord. This is the key to all peace. 

He'll supply thy every need. 
Trust Him ; let baleful anxiety cease, 

Of thy future condition take thou no heed. 



Park Street Mall, Sept i8, '89. 



76 



A HARVEST WELCOME. 



(Of the Church Member to a Stranger.) 



In the season past we've had pleasure : 
Health, and sunshine beyond a measure : 
From hill and valley gathered treasure. 

Our harvest has been good. 
The Lord is with us, again we meet. 
With sweet smiles, and with fond wishes treat 
Each other : — thus too the stranger greet, 

That he may share our mood. 



Dear stranger, we wish to draw you in 
From the noisy, wicked street's mad din ; 
Into His peace, away from this dark sin. 

To the light of God's love. 
We would tell you of wonderful rest, 
Tell you : — you may on the Lord's sweet breast 
Pillow your aching head. Sin confessed. 

Comfort comes from Above. 



77 



'Tis not a fairy tale, dear stranger. 
'Tis He who was born in a manger, 
Who died to save you from your danger ; 

He prompts me thus to speak. 
Come, look at the happy faces here — 
Full of Peace, and rest, devoid of fear. 
To this thou art welcome, stranger dear, 

If thou wilt Jesus seek. 



A Prayer. 

Father, help this sin-tossed soul — 
Listen to his sad confession — 

Brother, point him to the Goal — 
— He is anxious for possession. 

— Amen. 



78 



TRUE MAKROOB. 



Be gentle, quiet, cool ; be pure. To rise above all out- 
ward influences of evil a man must learn to conquer him- 
self — to control the passions within. Be master of your- 
self ; then if the time should come, as it undoubtedly will, 
when you are in the trying position of a master over other 
men, the necessary ability required for successful leader- 
ship will be yours. 

Be gentlemanly — gentle as a woman, manly as a man. 
It is not necessary that you should have fine raiment, gold, 
or social position ; but be appreciative of others' feelings ; 
blind to their physical debilities ; to their lack, or seem- 
ing lack of training in the laws of etiquette, etc. Be 
patient with a voluble tongue ; give courtesy in exchange 
for rudeness, lending a helping hand in cases of necessity, 
remembering to perform various little acts for others' ben- 
efit, — they count. A brick house is built of single little 
bricks, one by one, yet quickly! Be quiet, calm, suffer in 
silence, never complain. " The best of men that e'er 
wore earth about Him was a sufferer, — a soft, meek, 
patient, humble, tranquil spirit — the first true gentleman," 
— even the despised Nazarene. Copy Him. Thus take 
on true manhood. 



79 



PAGE THE LAST. 



The sand hath run from out the o:lass ; 

Close me friend. * # # 

Is thy path brighter ? 
Dost thou feel thy burdens lighter ? 
Dost Hope, Faith and Love draw nearer ? 
Wilt the Master's work be dearer ?■ 
Have these my "grains" while running brought 
Sunbeams bright to a darkened spot ? 
— " Yes " — Thank you, brother, let me pass 
To the end. * * * 
As thine. 

The Author. 



80 



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